Reading

A Few of My Favorite Books

CJ Cherryh is probably my favorite writer–period–and the Morgaine Saga is my favorite of her work. Brilliantly original ideas, elegant prose, and heartbreakingly beautiful characterization, all mixed into the most seamless blending of science fiction and fantasy I have ever read.

If there is a book that contends with CJ Cherryh’s Gate of Ivrel for my top slot, it’s this one. I read this book when I was about thirteen, and it impacted me hugely, exposing me to some very big ideas at a young age.

I both envy Card for writing such a brilliant book, and pity him for doing it so early in his career. How do you follow up a book like this?

The movie released in 2013 was also very good, and captured the spirit of the book beautifully.

Gene Wolfe is one of those people that I’m convinced must be an alien or some elevated life form, because he has ideas that I can’t even imagine having originated in a human brain. His originality is only surpassed by the beauty of his words.

I don’t care who you are–your gender, your age or your reading preferences–but you need to read this book, especially if you’re a writer. Pride and Prejudice is one of the best stories ever told in the English language. Period.

Also, for you single guys… read it in public. It’s more effective than a puppy, guaranteed.

The most recently published addition to my favorites list. I’m convinced that Rothfuss is like Samson, and his writing genius is in his beard.

Rothfuss has the dubious honor of being the only writer who has ever ratcheted up the tension in a book so far that I had to break a cardinal rule and skip ahead. His books are insanely large, but the story flows so well that I didn’t even notice.

Another Jane Austen. What can I say? The lady was an amazing writer. This book is quiet, and beautiful, and has one of the best representations of Austen Snark ever. Brace yourself.

The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.

He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him “poor Richard,” been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.